Chapter Two: The Darkening of the Gray Fertilizer

How could such a miserable thing exist in this world? After years of working odd jobs, suddenly transported to another world, starting from scratch with nothing but bare walls, having to take care of children left behind, and being bound to a deeply sinister and seemingly useless hidden ability.

This led to Eriya’s aura—a blend of having suffered eight lifetimes of misfortune mixed with a hint of ferocity—being strangely convincing when he went to meet the gang leader known as the “Interviewer” in the chaotic part of the city called the "Suicide Slum." Without hesitation, the gang believed he was truly at the end of his rope, forced to become an outlaw. Eriya also had other traits: he was socially awkward and barely spoke English.

His social anxiety showed in how he wandered aimlessly through the alley for twenty minutes before finally deciding to meet the “Interviewer.” Because of the delay, he was nearly mistaken for a Metropolitan Police officer. When they finally met, Eriya remained silent for nearly two to three minutes before meekly uttering under the muzzle of a gun:

“I don’t speak English.”

Had he known he’d end up in America after transmigrating, he certainly wouldn’t have thrown away his foreign language skills the day after passing the intermediate English test!

The black-clad gang leader, the “Interviewer,” suddenly understood everything. Even with a strong physique and decent looks, such a person truly couldn’t secure a stable, respectable job in modern society. He didn’t care how Eriya ended up working for others; experience told him that disposable bottom-tier people like Eriya had an 80% chance of dying within two days. So, with a mix of pity and disdain, the leader said:

“You’re hired. Start work immediately. If you survive tonight, you’ll get paid.”

It was a long sentence filled with accents and slang that Eriya neither understood nor cared to understand. Distracted, he followed the group, his thoughts fixed on the cheap foster daughter waiting for him at home with no food but hope. If he recalled correctly, the girl’s name was Ophelia Esposito, actually eleven years old but looking frailer than other children her age due to malnutrition.

She looked pitiable, enough to stir compassion in any normal person.

But Eriya was barely keeping himself together. He simply warned her not to mess with the utilities before he returned, lest something terrible happen. The girl was terrified of him and nodded repeatedly at his barely coherent English commands—whether she understood or not was anyone’s guess.

According to what Eriya knew, he also had a foster son, Gallo Esposito, but the boy hadn’t appeared all day while Eriya was home. He wasn’t sure if the boy was at school or off somewhere else.

As for the mafia that hired Eriya, they went by the grand name “International Gang.”

Eriya’s educational background meant his listening skills outpaced his speaking ability. After hearing the same sentences repeated, he could catch about half the meaning. Along the way, he learned that the International Gang had long been enemies of superheroes, a villainous organization as resilient as cockroaches, with an unknown, deeply hidden leader.

The motley crew around him, of all ages, genders, and skin tones, were all from the city’s underclass. Though the city was relatively safe thanks to a resident superhero, the poor were mostly concentrated near the river and port on the west side, just a bridge away from the crime-ridden Gotham City across the water. Perhaps that proximity bred much of the darkness here.

Their recent mission was to pick up a shipment at the port. Eriya didn’t know whether it was weapons or drugs—the leader didn’t specify. Details of the drop-off and the foot soldiers didn’t matter; Eriya and his group were merely bait to distract the police.

No wonder they were paid daily—if he didn’t get paid today, he might not live to spend it tomorrow.

Truthfully, this was Eriya’s first time working as a mafia lackey, engaging in street crime, so naturally he was nervous. His nervousness made him unapproachable, and no one dared speak to him all night. Before taking any action, they would subtly watch him, as if he were an experienced squad leader worth emulating.

“...” Eriya thought, better not—getting involved unwittingly could lead to harsher punishment.

On the first night, the mafia and police unexpectedly left each other alone, which eased everyone’s tension. At dawn, Eriya found a place to shower, changed out of his smoke-scented clothes, tidied himself up, and took the cash given by the little leader to head home. His imposing appearance spared him from being robbed.

After arriving home and quickly preparing a simple meal for the obedient Ophelia waiting on the sofa, he didn’t rest but watched the morning news. The media made no mention of the International Gang but spoke of Superman with a tone of regret, noting his recent absence from the city’s skies.

Superman was rumored to have left on a Justice League mission deep into space, unlikely to return soon.

Piecing together the broadcast, Eriya’s internal alarm bells blared. The International Gang and Superman were long-time enemies, and the gang must be keenly aware of Superman’s absence. If Superman was gone, they would seize the opportunity to stir trouble. This was no small matter.

Spending too long among criminals didn’t align with Eriya’s career plans; he just wanted a temporary job with meals included. But quitting might not be easy once inside, and getting stuck as a permanent employee would be troublesome.

He hesitated. He hadn’t even touched the core of the work yet. If he could find a way out tonight, it would still be early. But even if he didn’t consider helpless Ophelia, how could he survive without food? Poor and unable to express himself clearly, how could he support himself on unfamiliar soil?

So, on the second day after transmigration, after thinking deeply all morning, Eriya decided to explore his hidden ability more thoroughly. If he had to walk the dark path of crime, he’d at least need some means of self-defense.

Evil or not, it was better than dying before even starting.

At the moment he made up his mind, sitting on the bed in his room like the Thinker, Eriya suddenly found himself back in the chamber where the Book of Fate resided.

The last time he bargained with the mirror, he agreed to become the Book of Fate’s guardian, paying with his ‘life.’ This time, he gained the right to use the Book of Fate itself, paying with his ‘appearance.’

What did that mean? Would he only be able to show this grayed, faded, darkened visage forever?

Eriya was puzzled. He wasn’t someone obsessed with looks, but becoming ugly was one thing—now he no longer looked human at all.

Ophelia, however, seemed unsurprised. Feeling awkward, Eriya tentatively called her name, “Ophelia,” in a gentle tone to soothe the nervous little girl.

The moment the word left his mouth, a profound, soul-piercing clarity surged from deep within his mind—he realized he was not speaking English!

The voice boomed like thunder, crashing down like waves from a mountain, oppressive to the soul. Even Eriya himself shuddered upon hearing it.

Ophelia’s reaction was even more dramatic: she stepped back two paces, wide-eyed and terrified, then plopped down on the floor, stunned for a few seconds before tears streamed down her cheeks. She cried and backed away, trying to distance herself from Eriya.

Eriya was utterly wronged!

Having never been married or experienced such a scene, he was just as stunned as the girl. She was scared, and so was he, desperately racking his brain for a way to stop her tears without daring to speak further for fear of triggering the terrifying effect again.

After a tense standoff between the towering adult and the tiny cotton ball of a child, Eriya, in desperation, pulled out all his last night’s wages from his jeans pocket and pressed the money into Ophelia’s hands.

She stared blankly at him, hiccuping softly, her sobs gradually quieting.

Eriya’s face darkened. Still unable to speak or say anything constructive, he simply stuffed the money further into her palm.

Seeing the child stop crying and stare at the cash in a daze, he quickly stood and fled the scene with lightning speed. Too frightening—this mysterious foster daughter was far too terrifying for him to handle. He’d rather face Superman in battle three hundred times.

After a brief pause, Eriya finally gathered the focus to study his new powers.

First, he had inexplicably mastered the language of the Book of Fate—reading, speaking, writing fluently as if it were his mother tongue. The problem was no one else understood it, rendering its primary function, communication, useless.

But on the bright side, this language carried an innate ability to intimidate intelligent beings. Testing it on stray dogs downstairs and a neighbor on the street, the dogs were indifferent, happily begging for food—Eriya had always had good luck with dogs.

The neighbor, a sane adult man, was terrified to tears, probably because Eriya deliberately intensified his tone this time. The man cried even harder than Ophelia.

Well... it was an unexpectedly effective offensive tactic.

Second, Eriya discovered his physical abilities had improved significantly. His strength, speed, and jumping far surpassed normal humans, though he was still only an average superpowered individual, a far cry from a Superman-level being.

Finally, with usage rights granted, the Book of Fate could transform from a mirror into a silver-white, staff-like rod in his hand whenever he wished. It was called “staff-like” because Eriya had no magical knowledge and could only guess its purpose beyond physical combat from its intricate design.

These were the most obvious powers. Eriya felt he had only scratched the surface of the Book of Fate’s capabilities.

His changed appearance also had some effects:

Close acquaintances like Ophelia had their perceptions altered, believing he had always looked this way.

Strangers meeting him for the first time screamed in horror or disgust, accusing him of being a genetically mutated freak. Eventually, these poor souls were knocked unconscious by Eriya and woke up with no memory, convinced their experiences were drug-induced hallucinations.

This made it impossible to live a normal life. Eriya was forced to try to look more human.

He studied his reflection for hours, slowly realizing he could manifest skin color and facial features—mouth, nose, eyes—through sheer willpower (or perhaps magic; he wasn’t sure). But he was so unskilled that most of the faces he created were distorted, resembling glitchy character models from a buggy online game.

This was the reality of his new existence.